


Out in Search

by helena3190



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Drama, Drowning, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25777501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena3190/pseuds/helena3190
Summary: While the Scouts remain stationed on the Coast, there are distinct moments between Levi and Mikasa that blur between camaraderie and friendship, transition their odd kinship to an indisputable connection. Is that all it is, though?"Yeah, and I'm callingOut in search of who we'll be"~ Fallen by Gert Taberner
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Levi
Comments: 36
Kudos: 203





	1. I, II, III & IV

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, welcome to this two-part short story of drabble-style moments between Levi and Mikasa. I haven't finished reading the manga so in my mind, canon is only clear up until season 3 of the anime. That said, the story Sharp Shooter by riverMika (infinitelystrangemachine_old) feels like canon to me and was just absolutely delightful to read-- several times. So, inspired by the setting they wrote in which Levi and Mikasa trained together while the Scouts are stationed on the coast defending from Marley attacks, I wrote these snippets for my own head-canon. Lastly, Hange's pronouns are they/them, a few anachronisms are used, and reoccurring imagery is deliberate. :) 
> 
> Trigger Warning(s): anxiety, panic attack, drowning, near death experience 
> 
> *Important note: Mikasa is aged-up to an adult!
> 
> With love, Helena

_Lay out our cards and you'll see all my mistakes_  
_Well, I don't mind while you're with me_

_When have I fallen?_  
_Am I crawling on my knees?_  
_Here I'm calling_  
_In the hope that you'll see me_

~ Fallen by Gert Teberner 

* * *

**I. "We're up by two-hundred, brat."**

Mikasa talks to herself while she thinks. It isn't something she notices at first, not until it garners Armin's sheepish smile and Levi's snapping reproach— _There's a reason it's called classified, Ackerman._ Turns out she only does it in moments of intense thought on newer or unfamiliar subjects, at least. When entrusted with devising the squad's upcoming strategic plan, during an internal debate on how to best resolve problematic behaviors with the new recruits, while attempting to devise a third, fourth and fifth back-up plan despite feeling sure her first would suffice.

Could be worse, she acknowledges to herself. Connie's been caught digging into his nose, Sasha's developed a gory habit of incessantly picking scabs, and Jean earns himself the horse jokes when he snorts and tosses his head while frustrated with paperwork. Mikasa supposes thinking aloud isn't embarrassing, so long as her mutterings are quiet enough.

Too restless to sit any longer, she takes her stack of notes and decides to go on a walk with them. She's not sure the time, but it's been hours since dinner and the others in the rooms next to her have closed doors with no light leaking out beneath them.

She wanders aimlessly through the halls, straining to see her notes in the dim light and muttering incoherently about the plausibility of a safe escape plan if they run out of gas or a recruit does something brash. Mikasa doesn't realize her steps have subconsciously taken her toward a better source of light without her ears bothering to alert her she's walked into an occupied mess hall.

"Oi, brat. You sleepwalking?"

Mikasa startles, her steps pausing at once while she jerks her head upward. Captain Levi, Commander Hange, and two guest MP's from Mitras are at the officer's table. She tenses, but her response is slow to formation- not only because of her broken stupor, but the pressure of strategic thoughts that have been drowning her for hours.

"No. I'm sorry for interrupting," she finally says, her gaze drifting from Captain Levi to their Commander.

Mikasa starts to tuck the papers into her side so she can bring her fist to sternum with the standard salute to her superiors, but Commander Hange is laughing and waving at her to come over.

"At ease, soldier. Why don't you come join us?"

Mikasa stares at Commander Hange before taking a look at what she's just been invited to – playing cards, gambling chips, loose cash, an ashtray with the stubs of two cigars, and glasses of amber liquid with a nearly empty bottle of scotch. Hange has cheeks flushed a humored red that Mikasa has rarely seen but knows can be blamed on too many drinks. One of the MP's is a man who must be an outcast from his own brigade; he's visited several times and Hange always seems sincerely glad to greet him. The other MP is an older woman with olive skin and silver-streaked hair, perhaps less of the ordinarily pompous look about her. Then there's Levi, cradling the glass of scotch the same as he would his teacup, without a flush from liquor but something different glazed in his steel-gray eyes.

"Oh, that's alright, but thank you," Mikasa respectfully refutes.

This is the officer's table. While Mikasa has been promoted to Sergeant and is entrusted with a considerate amount of responsibilities thanks to the limited numbers of Scouts left, she still ranks beneath the officers. It wouldn't be proper to take Commander Hange's invitation as anything other than a friendly acknowledgement while too drunk to think straight.

"Really, Sergeant, I insist," Hange says with a wink.

It's an order, not a request. Mikasa shuffles her papers together and reluctantly joins the officers and MP's at the table. She takes the only empty seat, between Levi and the MP she recognizes. Mikasa watches Levi try to look over her notes but she tucks them onto her lap.

"Theodore Dok," the MP introduces himself warmly, and then turns toward his colleague. "Zahira Zaidi."

Mikasa nods to both of them. "Mikasa Ackerman."

She's not prepared for the immediate surprise that overcomes both MP's features. Dok has dark eyebrows lifted to the ceiling and Zaidi drops her glass back down with a _clunk_. Something like trepidation tremors through Mikasa as she wets her lips and looks between them. 

Levi grunts, but he takes a sip of scotch and says nothing, leaving it to Hange to offer an explanation.

"Theo and Zaidi here were asking us earlier about the famed Girl Worth a Hundred Soldiers," Hange says, chuckling, gesturing toward Mikasa. "This would be her."

Mikasa's confusion is apparent. "Excuse me?"

It's Theo who turns toward her. "It's an honor to meet you, Sgt. Ackerman. You weren't aware of what the reporters named you, what all the people call you behind the Walls?"

"No." Abruptly, Mikasa wishes one of those glasses of liquor belonged to her.

"Girl Worth a Hundred Soldiers," Theo says, whistling.

Now Mikasa frowns.

"What's wrong with that?" Zaidi asks, recognizing Mikasa's displeasure.

This prompts Hange to start laughing as they look over to Levi and Mikasa, a strange sort of knowing smile as one eye sparkles beneath shining glasses.

"Mikasa isn't a _girl_ ," Hange says, crossing arms over their chest. "Isn't that right?"

Levi puts down his glass without acknowledging that for some reason the question is being posed to him, too. All together flustered about this revelation, Mikasa doesn't notice.

"I'm twenty-two," she clarifies, for whatever it's worth.

"Ah," Zaidi shakes her head dismissively while lifting a hand to point at Mikasa's younger face. "An adult by legal definition but still, aren't you a little young to be a Sergeant?"

Mikasa doesn't have the excuse of inebriation when she clutches her papers in her lap and speaks the first retort that comes to mind. "Well I suppose standards are different here in the Scouts. Most of us don't have the luxury of assuming we'll ever reach the age when our hair turns gray."

The table is quiet for a full three seconds that feels like forever; it's enough time for Mikasa to feel a flash of intense regret, to fear she'll be dragged out of the room by the nape of her neck or knocked back to the recruit barracks. But at the end of the third second, Hange and Theo burst out into a robust laughter without any restraint sobriety ordinarily provides. Though it starts with a slight tremor, Zaidi chokes out an amused grunt and laughs fully, too.

When Mikasa risks a glance at Levi, there's the ghost of a smirk lurking on his visage. He meets her nervous gaze with a brazen sort of acknowledgement, and though she can't be certain, Mikasa thinks that it might be from pride.

"You're right about that," Zaidi says, and she lifts her glass, taking the time to tip it toward each of the Scouts at the table before finishing the rest of it in one gulp. "Thanks to your lot, I'm happily able to grow more gray hairs each and every day."

Theo's recovered from his laughter. "So, the rest of it— worth a hundred soldiers. That all true, then?"

For the first time, it's Levi who answers. "Oh, it's true."

Hange nods in confirmation and Mikasa blushes, wishing she had something to look to, to hold onto.

"Ask them what the papers call Levi," Hange tells her with a wicked grin, and the man in question produces such a severe glare that Mikasa is sure it has the power to put a hole through Hange's forehead.

"What?" Mikasa asks, almost nervous but mostly curious.

" _Tch_." Levi tries and fails for indifference, fingers gripping firmly over the edge of his glass.

"Humanity's Strongest," Hange announces with a false note of feminine swooning and fluttering of lids.

Mikasa lifts a brow, but she isn't genuinely surprised. If there is anyone who deserves such a moniker, it's certainly him.

"That true, too?" Zaidi asks, noting Levi's disinterest and Mikasa's curious brow.

For some reason, Hange looks to Mikasa and waits to see if she'll answer first.

"For now it is," Mikasa answers carefully, looking directly at Zaidi. "He's stronger and faster than I am, but he's older, too. One day, I'll be as good as he is."

When the table erupts into more laughter, it takes Mikasa a second to realize that their chorus is complete; a low, quiet chuckling is coming from Levi, too.

"Very good then," Theo says, and he looks behind him for the nearby liquor cart and finds an additional glass. After pouring the remainder of scotch into the new glass and handing it off to Mikasa, he nods toward her and Levi. "With such unprecedented threats, Walls know we need Humanity's Strongest Pair."

Mikasa's eyes widen as she takes the glass. "They're saying that, too?"

Theo shakes his head, a good-humored smile. "No, not yet. I just made it up."

She clutches onto her glass of scotch and looks around, abruptly overwhelmed at the unexpected turn of events on her night and the unfamiliar set of company. Commotion ensues in some chaotic conversation between Hange and the two guests, but she barely hears them. Mikasa feels more than sees Levi's scrutiny and flashes a cursory look over to him. He's as unreadable as always, even with shoulders loosened and gray-eyes storming from the liquor.

He lifts his glass to her, as if reminding her she's supposed to cheers with it. Belatedly, Mikasa lifts her glass up and their drinks meet with a soft _clink._ It's too gentle, the noise made by a kiss of glass too charming for the realities of the gruesome ways in which their strength is required.

"To Humanity's Strongest," she mutters, quiet enough it's only Levi who's paying any attention to her.

He holds his glass to hers while her heart beats for several more seconds. Then he corrects her, the same tone in which he admonishes her for faulty side-steps or imperfect gear polishing; but when it's spoken several octaves lower, it sends shivers straight through her spine.

"To Humanity's Strongest Pair."

Their glasses remain kissed while Mikasa looks at him, the beats of her heart now too erratic to help her measure what amount of time has passed. Maybe it's because these aren't the grandiose words actually being printed in the newspapers, or maybe it's because there's a profound truth to them that gives her the only solace she knows in their bloodied professions – but Mikasa feels her lips curving upward.

She hides her smile, and the manner in which Levi is studying how her lips have formed it, by taking her first sip of scotch. Though she has no intentions of catching up with the others, she needs more than a shy sip and feels an immediate relief from the liquor burning down her throat.

"We just dealt a new hand before you walked in, so you'll have to wait a few minutes I'm afraid," Zaidi apologizes to Mikasa.

"That's fine," Mikasa promises, meaning it.

But Levi slides his cards over to rest before her and then takes the notes out from her lap. "She can take my hand."

Mikasa's not worried about the game. She reaches out for her notes, but Levi lazily pulls them further away and starts reading them.

"I haven't finished yet," she protests, a touch of embarrassment he'll see her incomplete thoughts and imperfect plans.

Levi spares her a bored glance. "You do realize I already overheard half of this over dinner, don't you?"

Now Mikasa does flush, but he doesn't give her time to recover. He takes the ink-pen she's had tucked into her ear and flicks it toward the donated hand of cards before he goes back to looking at her notes, pulling up his left leg to use his thigh as a base for the papers.

"We're up by two-hundred, brat. Try not to lose any of my money to those fucking unicorn patches."

There's a roar of exaggerated offense from Theo and Zaidi but Levi is already absorbed into the work, one hand holding the papers near his lifted knee and the other nursing the glass of scotch with her pen trapped between two lithe fingers. Mikasa swallows, not sure why it is difficult to take her attention off of him and onto the playing cards instead.

Later, when she's won a few hands for Levi, feels the scotch warming her, identifies an unfamiliar scratch in her throat from unusual amounts of laughter, she returns to her room. Her stack of notes now host the handwriting of two different authors. Mikasa sits on her bed and finishes reading each of his additional notes, only partially annoyed by the effortless manner he solved all of her remaining problems.

Perhaps it was improper to spend an evening drinking scotch and playing cards at the officer's table, and most likely it was even worse to allow a supervising officer to finish her work assignment for her, but Mikasa is grateful for both.

Even when she's finished compiling the notes into a final summary ready for submission, Mikasa continues to evaluate the neat, thin words he's written as succinct solutions beside her messier scrawl of concerns and confusion. It's the _clink_ from the kissing of glass and low timbre in Levi's voice she hears as she traces the words on their combined notes. _Humanity's Strongest Pair._

Despite the warmth of liquor and all of her work complete, Mikasa's unconvinced she'll be able to fall asleep easily.

~.~

**II. "Only you."**

It's the seams that stitch her together. They won't tear themselves apart. Her chest is pulled taut from the strain, but they won't yield, won't snap, won't let her break.

Ballooning beneath her sternum with escalating pressure, it's begging for relief, stretching at her seams. Every breath she takes is too hard to take, so she stops breathing all together. The outside world makes noises she can't hear, there's only the desperate pounding of her heart, a thunderous roar of blood rushing in her ears. The inside world is silenced too; reminders to _just breathe_ and _calm down, Mikasa_ shoved under the tidal waves of panic, all rational thoughts now garbled as if spoken through the water.

Too nauseous to scream, she wrenches her clenched fists from her side and slams them into her chest. An amalgam of tension and pain, it swells beneath her rib cage but cannot or will not burst, and she tries to tear it out of her. It's stuck, it stays, it is trapped; no, she is trapped. _Trapped beneath these fucking seams._

Taunting her, the clock tower chimes six times – all routine and normalcy around her, none within her. Her vision starts to blur then darken at the edges, reminding her to breathe. _I can't._

When she sucks down one sharp gulp, it is too hard, too fast. She wonders if she's accidentally choked down razors instead of oxygen.

Once more she tries to scream, to let it implode if it will not _explode_. But the seams are stitched too tight. They've held her together for this long now, through so much worse than an ordinary Tuesday evening, they won't tear now. _Too fucking stubborn_ to admit they can be torn. Even when she needs to break, _Walls, I can't, I ca-._

Her knees wobble and she accepts that she'll fall, but her soldier's feet stumble her up and onward. This one spark of movement is enough to alleviate some– not enough, _not fucking enough_ – of the tightness in her chest. It's not conscious choice but instinct to keep her feet moving, to drag these limbs out of her room and into the hall. It just turned six o'clock, there's the bustling of excitement in words she still can't hear and faces she can't see as everyone heads for the mess hall. If anyone's noticed she's all but shaking as she follows suit, she surely hasn't noticed them.

Smells of ordinary foods yet she can't name them, and heat, sweltering heat, from the kitchen and busied bodies—it takes her to the tipping edge. Only the seams keep her restrained from falling, and _Walls,_ she wants, she _needs_ to fall. Blurred in her vision again, she tries to scan the room, attempting to plan her next move (how to burst, how to fall). _I can't, I can't fucking do this, I ca-._

Buzzed undercut beneath the perfect trimmed edges of ink-black hair. Attire entirely too expensive for this place, these people, their life; white ascot prim and proper, formal blazer on relaxed shoulders. Unlike her, he is so at ease; seated with others in higher command, bored or content in their company. He's not sitting rigid, but lazily, legs stretched outward. At this moment, nothing can be more unfair. _And why?_ _Why in the name of the Titans does he hold his fucking teacups in that ridiculous grip?_ It's all she can see, the clutch of his fingers overlaying the entire rim of the little white cup, and her teeth grind together.

She's not sure when her wobbling knees find their resolve but she's crossing the room, she's standing in front of him, and he's still sipping his _stupid_ tea.

"Spar with me."

Doesn't look up, doesn't hesitate. "No."

"Spar with me," she repeats, an oxygen-deprived plea, but he's still not looking, he's still not hearing.

"Not now, Ackerma—"

He doesn't get to be so in control when she is _so out of it._ Without blinking, without thinking, she snags the teacup from his _ridiculous_ careful clutch and sends it sailing toward the wall. Porcelain shatters and all of the pieces clatter to the floor. She watches the tea stain and drip down the wall, and can almost, almost breathe.

"The fuck," he grumbles, too surprised to be angry – yet.

Levi jerks his head toward her, finally hearing, but she doesn't give him the chance to see – her glazed, bloodshot eyes, trembling all over – before she's pushed forward by the potential satisfaction of _real_ momentum. She sends her fist to strike directly into him, determined to hear the snapping of bone, either from his jaw or her metacarpals.

He blocks in just enough time, her arm skidding past his earlobe, but she is already yanking it backward and sending it on to assault him again. Faster than her, faster than lighting, he is out of his seat. There are gasps and hollers and murmurs around the rush of blood in her ears but it's only Levi that she can see; she's too busy charging for him.

It's too easy, he's still caught off-guard; she slams him into the dining table, more dishware clattering and food spillage beneath him.

Now, she's gotten him dirty. Now, he's furious.

What would not explode earlier is finally lit into a raging fire; smothering smoke in every hurl of her fist, knee-slamming or kick, with one particularly unkind hit beneath the belt. They jump out of her, wild flames; each maneuver to dodge him, when sustaining her own defense from his brutal blows, and even when he lands an expert punch, stealing her breath and making her stumble for a far more _real_ reason.

 _Yes,_ her rational thoughts are loud as they clamor up for air, driving a knee into his thigh. 

_Do it, just do it,_ in the half-second he hesitates before shoving an elbow into her gut.

It's not sparring at all; it's fighting dirty, clawing and snarling, hair and clothing yanked with fury, desperate scrambling and slamming. It feels like fifteen minutes, it's probably only a few; she started off too weak to win this and quickly loses her surprise advantage.

Levi secures a vice grip on both of her arms and shoves her against the wall so hard her head bounces against it twice. It's an instant explosion of pain, rods of iron shooting through every inch of her brain. Her vision blurs from white lights and she hears a guttural scream – it will only occur to her later that it came from her own throat. Hot, wet blood starts to trickle down her skull and though the searing pain is overwhelming, she finds a morbid comfort in attempting to focus on the creeping descent of her life-force as it starts down her neck. 

Mikasa closes her eyes, lets her entire body go limp. For one long moment, he keeps her rag-doll frame pinned to the wall. She doesn't need to be coherent or watching to know he's _infuriated-_ waiting for her to counter attack, wondering why she hasn't yet.

"What the fuck was that for?" Spoken hoarsely, almost quiet enough to be a whisper.

 _He should be angrier,_ she thinks abstractly, too distracted by the burgeoning pain. The intensity of his aggravation is diminished by the rasp of his breathing after an unexpected release of adrenaline, the confusing nature of her premature surrender.

Unable to gather the strength to respond, Mikasa only hums in a stunted rhythm.

Seeing the blood as it trickles onto the nape of her neck, Levi frowns and drops his harsh grip. He takes a step back, unwilling to apologize for defending himself but unable to feel victorious either.

Without him holding her up, Mikasa doesn't have the capability to; she lets her exhausted frame slide down the wall. She slumps into a seated position, stretching her legs and resting her injured skull against the wall as if it is the most comfortable she's been in weeks. _It might be,_ she considers absently.

She lifts an injured hand, swollen with split knuckles, to what previously wouldn't burst and shred through the seams. The pressure rising beneath her sternum is gone- gone, gone, _gone_.

"Oh, thank the Walls," Mikasa mutters to herself, the stinging start of relieved tears.

She's taking in each and every breath with sincere gratitude.

Levi stares at her with disdain, then confusion, and then – and then a gradual understanding, the sort that softens the crease between his brows and lets his tense shoulders drop.

Reluctantly, he takes the seat next to her, relaxes into the wall behind them. His lip is busted, blood seeping from the wound; bright red droplets fall onto his pure white ascot. He scowls at the sight of the stains and starts to rip it off.

"You need a fucking psychiatrist, Ackerman."

"No." She's shaking her head with an easy confidence. "I needed this—needed you."

He's shaking his head too, a different reason for it. "Me."

"You're the only one," she starts, takes in another breath like it's coated in sugar, entirely too sweet, "who can—who can…"

She doesn't have the rest of the words to explain it, but he grunts, understanding even if he doesn't want to. The only one who can handle the true force of her unrestrained blows, the only one who can respond with enough strength to draw it out her in the first place- the only one who will understand it isn't meant to hurt, but to help.

Both of them catch their breath and take stock of their wounds. If any curious or worried onlookers get too close, Levi's dull glare sends them skirting away.

Mikasa doesn't realize how much time has passed in their contented silence until the single stroke of the clock signifies its half past six. Like she's been in a trance, its announcement of normalcy and routine jars her back into the present. A moment she now can be in, breathe in.

"I'm sorry," she admits, almost but not quite worried as she glances over to him.

"For this?" He doesn't look at her, but gestures toward his bleeding lip with the ruined ascot in his hand. "No, you're not."

"No," she agrees, shaking her head once. "Not for that. For throwing your tea."

Levi slowly turns toward her, unreadable when staring into her. "Apology not accepted."

Mikasa tries not to frown, but her lips pull down regardless. She reaches up for her scarf, an old habit, but it's not there, it's in the dresser she's retired it to. Her hand falls into her lap, emptied.

" _Tch."_ Levi rolls his eyes, but he turns toward her. "Let me see it."

He's already pulling her shoulders forward so he can take a look at the back of her injured head. Mikasa thoughtlessly leans into his touch, trusting him to keep her balanced. Despite the throbbing pain, she'd forgotten to actually be concerned by an injury. Levi leaves one hand to hold her weakened frame, but moves the other to push back her blood-soaked hair.

Mikasa almost winces when his fingers probe the wound, but she bits her lip hard instead. When he's not probing the sore part of her skull, his careful touch is accidentally soothing, threading through her hair and running over her scalp.

"Well, brat. Time for you to go to the infirmary."

"Stop talking about doctors." Even though he's behind her head and can't see her glaring, she does it.

Levi scowls in mild frustration; knows better than to argue with her, or worse, order her. She wouldn't listen to either.

He folds his ascot as a substitute for medical gauze and presses it to the base of her skull. This time, she can't help it when she winces.

"Only me?" He's mocking her, aware of his unorthodox treatment methods and less-than-gentle touch.

But Mikasa is serious, lifting one hand to hold the ascot to the wound and then leaning back again, neither of them sure if it's intentional that her shoulder now rests against him.

"Only you."

If the seams force her to remain stitched together, he'll have to do.

~.~

**III. "Sounds like treason."**

The last thing Mikasa expects to see is an arrangement of stone-cut characters in sleek ivory and ebony atop a checkered marble board. She eyes the ensemble warily, vaguely remembering a conversation where Eren called it 'a game of chess' and Armin protested that 'it's not a _game_.' Despite these possible context clues, she's uncertain what the not-a-game has to do with Captain Levi's instructions for her to come by after drills for 'advanced strategy training.'

"You're not serious," Mikasa says eventually, but her confidence is lacking.

Levi doesn't blink. "Didn't realize I had a reputation for being a comedian."

It takes effort not to roll her eyes. "You don't, but …"

"Then sit down and stop waiting for a punchline."

Mikasa begrudgingly does as she's told. It's the first time she's been inside Captain Levi's personal quarters, and though the layout is the exact same as hers and all the others who don't have to bunk with a comrade, it feels strange to be staying long enough to have a seat. She pulls out the chair across from him and slowly makes herself comfortable. Or at least, tries to.

"You know what this is, Ackerman?" Levi asks, but he sounds like he's already aware of the answer, so she just stares at him. "It's a game called chess."

Mikasa studies the figurines at the front of the line. They make up the bulk of the pieces, but they're much smaller and entirely plain. Behind them are pieces clearly more significant; they have ornate features, some of them regal. Armin's emphatic statement rings clearly through her mind.

"It's not a game," she says carefully, the start of an understanding.

Levi leans back into his seat. "No, not in the traditional sense. Not for our purposes."

Mikasa finds herself fixated on the nondescript pieces. She picks one up, cradles it in her palm and stares at it. "What're these ones called?"

"Pawns."

She grips the piece tighter. "Of course."

Levi stares at her for a moment. Even without providing an initial overview of the strategy components or its relevance to her training, he's aware she's thinking of more than chess at this point.

"By nature of the definition, a pawn still holds a purpose," Levi says, almost emphatically.

She finds it strangely comforting to hear this spoken with his signature brand of blunt honesty, but she doesn't admit it.

Mikasa stares right back. "Think I don't know that?"

Levi takes his time in acknowledging her. "You wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't."

For reasons she's not entirely sure of, Mikasa pauses and bites into her bottom lip. Finding his acknowledgement too intense, she puts the pawn back and looks down at the rest of the pieces. She waits for Levi to begin instructions, but instead he takes hold of one of the more detailed pieces – it looks like the tower of a castle. When Levi offers his hand for her to take it from him, she's immediately curious.

"What's this one do?" She asks, holding it carefully between her fingers.

"That's a rook. It protects."

Mikasa flashes her eyes upward. "Is it any good at protecting?"

Though he knows she's new to the game, he looks to her as though she should know better than to ask something so obvious. He lifts the other rook and tilts it toward the one in her hand. "Most would agree two rooks working together have more value than the queen."

It's slight, but her brows lift. "Sounds like treason."

"Not to a Queen who knows she's outmatched and outnumbered."

Mikasa studies the rook in her hand and thinks about everything they are up against: the titans, Marley invaders, the Curse of Ymir, and every other cruel truth yet to be discovered. Whenever the confidence she has in herself reaches its natural limit, it's only because of the man across from her that she maintains any semblance of hope humanity will survive it.

She stops herself from nervously tending to her bottom lip and puts the rook back in the place Levi had taken it from. She watches him return the complimentary rook, too.

"Alright," Mikasa says, her initial complaint of how a board game shouldn't keep her from _actual_ training now replaced with an earnest determination. "Teach me."

He does. 

Three weeks later, when Eren and Armin return from their latest confidential mission with Commander Hange, Mikasa eats her yogurt and watches in quiet amusement at the fussing and teasing of the squad's chaotic reunion. She's mostly relishing in the comfort of their liveliness without listening to the content of their conversations – until Jean starts to gesture toward her.

"Sorry Armin, but guess you're going to need a new hobby. Captain Levi replaced you the first night you left."

Her eyes widen in surprise, but Armin turns toward her with an endearing smile. "You've learned chess, Mikasa?"

She doesn't answer at first. She glances over to the nearby officer's table; if Levi is listening in, there's no way to tell. Despite the commotion at his own table, he's focused on the contents of a half-finished book.

Mikasa turns back to Armin. "Yes, I've learned."

Whether she's learned a hobby or 'advanced strategy', she isn't sure. She's less sure why she finds herself hoping it isn't the latter.

~.~

**IV. "It's not a special occasion."**

This is the first time the knocks on her door are familiar enough she knows how to place them. Rather, who to attribute them to. They're more like taps than knocks, probably from the back of a few knuckles after a practiced jerk of his wrist; light enough not to startle her, but authoritative too, anticipating a swift admission.

"Come in."

Levi lets himself in but she doesn't look up from the materials spread out across her bedroom floor.

"Just going to let anyone in, Ackerma—" He interrupts his admonishment at the sight of her project.

"No," she tells him, too distracted to be offended. "I knew it was you."

Mikasa rearranges a photograph beneath a scrap of paper with her note ' _Hal Ackerman div Marietta, child?'_ and stares at it in consideration. Levi's shadow darkens half her vision when he comes to stand behind her. Still focused, she doesn't ask him to move but reaches a hand behind her and shoves his legs.

" _Tch._ " But now he's also too distracted to be annoyed.

Levi takes another step back and watches his shadow lift off the photos nearest her. It's him; it's a relatively recent photograph of himself in formal Scouts attire, but it's from before Erwin died and it feels like a lifetime ago. Above this photo are even more startling sights – a blank note marked with ' _Levi's mom'_ connected to another blank note, adjacent to a rare photograph of Kenny, Mikasa's chicken scratch labeling it 'Kenny Ackerman, Levi's uncle (maternal).'

A flash of understanding crosses over his scowling features. The hundreds of notes, photos, and stacks of books piled around her, half of them organized into the shape of a disfigured tree; her recent return from escorting Arlert on a research trip to the Grand Royal Library in Mitras; the candles burning furiously, soon to be out of wax; her thoughtful scribbles of ink onto the notepad resting against her bare legs.

"You're identifying the generations of Ackerman families."

"Yes," she answers, suddenly nervous upon remembering this might be encroaching into a personal space he doesn't wish for her to be, shared name or not.

The same second that Levi tears his vision off of the half-complete family tree is the same moment Mikasa looks up to him. He's towering over her, the remnants of his scowl tamed by the surprise, an unnameable emotion shuddered behind steel-gray eyes. The half-filled teacup he holds firmly around the edges and pressed into his abdomen is the only sign he's affected.

Mikasa bites her lip, let's go of the notebook and tries to remain casual, turning toward the comfort of routine and protocol. Despite her thin camisole and pajama shorts, she brings her fist to the center of her chest with a forceful _thump_.

"Captain," she greets, strict and serious.

Levi blinks. It's the first time he's seen her hair pulled up since the time she and Eren were imprisoned. Not tangled and dirtied this time, but still a mess of loose strands haphazardly tucked behind a crimson red ribbon. He briefly wonders if she wears it like this often in later hours or if it was done in a frustrated attempt to keep the hair out of her eyes when bent toward her notes.

"At ease," he mumbles, turning back to her project to avoid peering down the loose fabric's divide as she releases her fist.

"What do you need me for?" Spoken with a tone as neutral as her composed features, but he knows better than to believe it. Their close proximity over the last year stationed on the coast has taught him the subtle difference of inflection between her genuine apathy and fabricated indifference.

"Your report from the trip to Mitras," he answers bluntly, side-stepping her project to take a seat on the nearby armchair he ordinarily finds himself in.

She almost frowns. "I wrote that entire report and left it on your desk as soon as we returned."

Levi looks over to her, unimpressed. "Gives me headaches to read your chicken scratch, Ackerman. Just tell me the update."

She narrows her eyes at him, but then brushes off imaginary dust on her pajama shorts and climbs up from the ground.

"So glad I slaved over that before even coming back to shower," she mutters, unafraid of him hearing it.

Yet Mikasa plops down at the edge of her bed with only mild frustration; she's already trying to remember the essential points she'd written into the report from earlier.

He sips idly on his tea while she details Armin's initial findings and the few skirmishes with known enemies, an attempted power-play from an upcoming gang, and a handful of irritable MP's. When he comes to sip on the dregs of his lukewarm tea, he stops himself and rests the cup at the edge of his knee. Mikasa notices, but doesn't miss a beat in her description of events as she stands up.

"You know Matthias? It was that dolt. He said he hadn't been _properly_ _informed_ by the Queen about us having any sort of _special privileges_ ," Mikasa explains, taking the teacup out from his grip and walking over to her kitchenette.

It isn't the first time he's seen her like this, casual and relaxed after hours in her sleepwear, yet it garners the same response from him as if it had been.

Her lean frame of taut muscles is nothing new after years of sparring, training and plain-old-arguing together, but seeing her like _this_ never seems familiar. More porcelain skin is revealed than what her sleepwear covers, feminine features and curves no longer hidden beneath soldier's garb and gear.

Sometimes he's not sure how to reconcile the images of a Mikasa stained in slick Titan blood soaring wildly at his side on ODM gear with images like this, a Mikasa half-dressed in comfortable silk as she makes him tea over idle chatter. But most of the times he knows better than to let himself try.

"He stonewalled us for three full days. That's why we were late," Mikasa clarifies, rinsing out his teacup and then setting a kettle to boil.

Her back facing him, Levi resists from staring at the bare skin of her neck, curvature of her shoulder blades, or length of her toned legs. Instead, he looks down at the Ackerman tree she's been building out. Her own photo is also nearest to where she'd been sitting, both of them on the lowest branches to represent the most recent generation.

"Worked out though, in the end," Mikasa announces, turning back to face him. "Armin said he was able to get everything he needed."

"And you?" Levi asks curtly, gesturing downward.

Mikasa almost flushes. Like a confession, her response is quiet. "Needed, or wanted, I'm not sure."

She walks back over to him and the pile of her notes at their feet. Mikasa sits down again, folding her legs over to the side and placing her index finger on the photograph of herself. She traces it upward to a photograph of her parents ( _mom and dad, child—me)_ and then only her father's parents, him being the Ackerman. Levi watches her trace upward to her paternal grandparents, great-grandparents and beyond.

"I haven't finished it all yet," she says, her gaze flicking over to the far right, where the photograph of Kenny sits near the blank cards above Levi's own. "But it doesn't seem like we're related."

He watches Mikasa trace up to his maternal grandparents, only made known thanks to Kenny's records on file from his brief time as an MP, and the few other relatives he's never met who now have inked names but are still strangers. She's right; they don't share any grandparents, uncles or aunts, or distant cousins for several generations.

"Just the same last name," she adds, leaning back when she's done.

It's in this moment he can tell she is relieved that he realizes he is, too. Why that is, and why it matters, he can't dwell on.

"And lethal instincts," Levi remarks dryly, the only contribution that is safe to offer on the subject.

Her laugh is so quiet he isn't sure if it's humored or sad. "Yeah, can't overlook that."

Mikasa seems to forget about the verbal report of her and Armin's research trip; but admittedly, Levi was the one who derailed the conversation. He watches her gaze on the blank cards above him, the nervous manner in which she reaches for the bare skin above her collarbones. No scarf now, so she gently tugs on the fabric of her camisole instead.

With an odd sort of reluctance, Levi removes himself from the armchair and takes the seat next to her on the ground. He takes hold of Kenny's photograph.

"I didn't know until he told me when he was dying," Levi says coldly, as if he's not speaking about one of the most influential persons of his childhood.

"But you did know him before," Mikasa says more than asks, aware that it will be up to him what he chooses to share with her.

"Yeah," Levi answers, evaluating the photograph for another moment before scowling at it and dropping it back down. "Guess he took me in and didn't find it worth mentioning."

She doesn't know the details of why Levi as a child needed anyone else to be taking him in; the awareness of these unknown reasons leads her eyes inevitably to the blank cards meant to be his parents. For an entire moment, it's silent while both of them stare at the cards.

"Kuchel." Levi says it so quietly she can barely hear him.

She's no less quiet. "Kuchel?"

He can't say that it's his mom, the words are too foreign, the concept already so strange. Instead, he lifts the card that she's written _Levi's mom_ onto and hands it to her.

Mikasa takes it from him as though it is fragile, her scarred fingers lingering onto his calloused ones, and then she places it onto her notebook. Like writing the letters of the name out is an act requiring fragile care too, she inks _Kuchel_ above the word mom and places it back down.

Next, slow and careful, she lifts the blank one meant to indicate his father.

"Not a fucking clue," Levi tells her, no longer finding the need to be quiet.

Mikasa hesitates. "If I figure out who he is, do you wa—"

"You won't."

Before he can determine whether or not she understands what he's saying, the tea kettle starts to whistle.

Mikasa looks over to him though, evaluating him as though she hasn't heard it.

Levi is honest. "Trust me, Ackerman. It doesn't matter anyway."

She looks at him with widened eyes; though she's heard him call her by their shared last name countless times before, there's something different about it being spoken now. It's just that – a shared name, not a family name.

"Alright," she says, her tone of finality conveying an unspoken commitment not to look into it, and then she pulls herself up from the floor again.

"Chamomile?" She asks unnecessarily, aware of his tea routines and which one he prefers this late at night.

Levi doesn't answer but she proceeds as if he confirmed it. Once she has the tea leaves steeping, Mikasa remembers the reason he knocked on her door in the first place.

"Well, Armin only found a few documents relevant to the titan serum, but he seems hopeful. One of them, likely our best chance he said, it descr—"

He finishes for her. "The potential origin of the serum according to old Reiss journals."

Mikasa clutches onto the counter. Irritated, she asks him, "You read the report?"

Levi turns toward her, something dark and challenging in his storming-gray eyes. "I read your report, brat."

"T-then why did yo…" Mikasa doesn't finish her question.

The need for the report was just an excuse – the excuse for _what_ tinges her cheeks a soft shade of red. It has been twelve weeks since they've seen each other. It occurs to her now that perhaps she was less bold than him, but not any less eager to ensure time spent together. This epiphany floods her mind and Mikasa means to hide it, to halt any audible proof of it from escaping.

"Oh," she says, the syllables made of soft edges but sharp from delight.

Mikasa turns back to the tea, alarmed at her unfiltered response, and quickly finishes preparing both of their cups.

When she comes back with the cup he'd brought with him and now her own too, Levi nods his gratitude while hooking the edges of his fingers over the top of the rim. When he lifts the teacup to his lips, the smell almost startles him.

"You sweetened it."

His disapproval is halfhearted but she understands the point he is making. Levi prefers his tea with no sugar, no honey, and no lemon; just quality leaves for unadulterated tea. The only time he makes an exception is to add honey during birthdays, holidays, and after they've won important battles.

One indignant brow is raised at her while he speaks. "It's not a special occasion."

Mikasa ignores his disapproving tone and holds the tea up to her lips, the sweetened scent of hot honey apparent beneath her nose, too.

When she answers, she's looking down at the vast distance and several branches between their photographs. "Feels like one."

Levi glances between her and what she's admiring; the proof they are not directly or nearly related. At once, his brow retreats to its normal position, all of his features smoothed over.

He doesn't speak the words to agree, but he doesn't complain again when taking the first sip of his sweetened tea.

* * *


	2. V, VI, VII, & VIII

_This voice inside of me has lost its breath_  
_It's far too tired to sing at ease_  
_All of the things I never said out loud_  
_They will remain inside of me_

_Yeah and I'm falling_  
_Yes, I'm crawling on my knees_  
_Yeah, and I'm calling_  
_Out in search of who we'll be_

~ Fallen by Gert Tabener 

* * *

**V. "That was the point."**

Her specialized training regiments with Captain Levi are always brutal, but today's round of obstacles is what the others have labeled the "insane and inhumane Ackerman course." Mikasa calls it attempted murder. After scaling the cliff's edge by hand, ruthless sparring, dodging bullets, and sprinting through sand dunes, she's desperate for reprieve.

Mikasa falls to her knees, staring into the setting sun with a sense of longing. When Levi skids to a halt a few feet after her, she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge his disappointment.

"Can you go any further?" Levi asks, and even he sounds winded.

She reluctantly looks to the upcoming stretch of shoreline they've been racing to, but there's no distinguishable finish line.

"Where?" she rasps, limbs trembling as she starts to stand.

"When," he clarifies, and exhaustion must be the only reason he sounds gentle. "When you can't go any further."

So she does. She runs even faster than before, clearing her mind from all distractions, visualizing enemy titans preparing to tear apart her friends, harnessing the pure power of their genetic gift. Mikasa only stops when her legs give out beneath her, sending her listless figure crashing into the sand.

The only reason she knows Levi has stopped and circled back to her is because of the hand gripped onto her shoulder. "Can you go any further?"

It's the same question as last time, but now Mikasa is certain she can't. Unable to breathe let alone speak, she shakes her head briefly.

"Alright then," Levi says, and too late she realizes what sounded like gentleness earlier is distinctly absent now. "Then it's time to swim."

She's certain that she misheard him. But then the hand on her shoulder is joined by his other one and Levi is pulling her upward, tossing her toward the sea. Mikasa falls again, this time into the wet sand and lull of incoming tidal waves. She stares at her sinking hands, too exhausted and startled to summon a protest.

"Fifteen minutes," Levi tells her, the steel in his tone ordinarily reserved for life-threatening moments.

One, insignificant wave crashes over her hands, but it reminds her of all the others. "No."

But Levi is pulling her upward again, tossing her further in. Mikasa still stumbles, but this time she doesn't fall to her knees. Her limbs are useless, muscle and bone converted to the jiggling of jelly. She curses the remaining seconds left before her legs will inevitably fail her.

"No? Alright, Sergeant. Twenty minutes."

Though it's now dusk, the rising moon is full. When Mikasa manages the strength to look over to him, the lethal silver in his illuminated eyes tells her if she doesn't go, Levi will drown her himself. He takes a brisk step toward her hesitating frame; it's either the very last drop of her wounded pride or some kind of divine intervention that helps her evade him. In this sliver of momentum, she starts to swim.

She doesn't count the minutes but the amount of times she's sure she'll drown - three. It turns out drowning people don't thrash and flounder, they sink. Mikasa begs the tides to guide her back to shore while she pushes and pulls forward, but instead they seem intent to drag her under. She's no longer worrying about pride, plans or Levi's purposes; only surviving, of making it to shore.

Mikasa can barely feel the mush that has become her limbs, but she does notice the sudden floor of sand beneath her feet. Instead of being the motivation to keep going, it's the unexpected excuse to stop moving.

How she's brought forward is a blur, but soon the water laps across her waistline, then her knees. Mikasa begins to collapse, but like an out-of-body-experience, she realizes that it's Levi holding her upward. He must have maneuvered her arm behind his neck and over his shoulder; she's confident there wasn't even enough strength left in her for something as simple as that. With his one arm wrapped behind her back and curled tightly over her abdomen, he holds her weight and takes them to the shoreline.

Together they slump to their knees on dry land. Mikasa stretches out to lay at once, half-turning to her side to keep from breathing in sand. There's no sense of time, space, or reason.

She fights for air, and can eventually breathe.

She only hears the erratic pulse of her heart, but then it steadies.

She can't move a single centimetre, but finally her eyes open.

Wet tangles of her dark hair block half her vision, but she sees Levi next to her. He is closer than she realized, propped up onto his elbows and half-lounging under the moon's glow. Only once she's mostly sure her words will finish making it out of her mouth does she speak.

"W-what was the point of that? To kill me."

He tilts his head to look down at her. "I said twenty minutes. Not my fault you're an overachiever."

Mikasa tries to bring her hand up to remove the strands of hair from her face, but she physically can't get her arm out from beneath her. It's a limp noodle with no sinews for strength. Even too tired to be annoyed, she simply sighs. "What do you mean?"

Levi seems to notice her failed attempt. He leans over and tracks his thumb over the loose strands, tucking them behind her ear. It requires another attempt, but he's Levi, so he's thorough.

"You swam for two hours."

Her surprise is a hoarse whisper. "Oh, _Walls_."

He removes his hand from the hair beneath her ear, and now that she can see him clearly, Mikasa identifies that he's impressed and - and something else, something different. It's almost as if he's grateful, but she can't think of what for.

More time passes. Enough time that she can wiggle her arms out of their trapped position, though it's slow and pathetic; one of them curls under her head to serve as a pillow, the other lies flat with her hand sunk palm-first into the sand. The outside of her little finger rests into the wet fabric of Levi's pants. Though this isn't her bed, nor a cot or even a campsite, she's certain she's sleeping here tonight. Exhaustion like she's never felt before is promising to knock her out shortly.

"Do you know what today is?" Mikasa asks faintly, weight of approaching sleep pressing into her. 

The flagrant look of absolute _knowing_ in Levi's starlit eyes tells her that he does.

After they discovered the truths about the titan serum and injection process, Eren was able to identify the date he first became a titan shifter. Or, the day that unknowingly started the ticking clock on his limited amount of years left before death. Today is the anniversary date; today marks one more year closer to when Eren will be dead. Soon he'll be dead and gone forever.

"I should be sad," she says, though she's not sure why; perhaps she's thinking aloud again. "I should be angry, and devastated,- …"

 _Walls_ knew on this date in the years prior she was a miserable wreck. Screaming, sobbing, and starting fights with the best of them. The unbridled fear and panic at the thought of losing her only family, her closest friend, turned her into a nightmare unleashed. Now, though, she's so absolutely drained and mind-numbingly exhausted, all of it feels too foreign. Like Eren's predestined death is a morbid fantasy, and even the Titans are only remnants of a bad dream.

"But I don't feel anything," she admits, heavy eyelids fluttering to a close. "Too tired."

He must have missed a loose strand of her hair. Mikasa feels the warmth of his knuckles brushing feather-light over her cheek.

"Yeah, brat," he mutters, so quiet she can hardly hear him. "That was the point."

She's already slipping into sleep, unaware that her last exertion of strength is to reach for his retreating hand, or that he actually lets her hold onto it.

~.~

**VI. "We both know I can't answer that."**

"Absolutely not."

"W-what?" Mikasa protests. "You haven't asked me a single que—"

"Didn't realize I stuttered."

Levi tosses the papers to her, barely giving her the chance to grab them before they land in a heap on the floor.

She grinds her teeth together. Mikasa doesn't need to speak the threat aloud for both of them to know she's imagining knocking his jaw so forcefully he _will_ be stuttering for the next week.

But Levi isn't intimidated; _can't_ be intimidated. His disinterest on her proposed tactical plans is only worsened as he casually walks over to her kitchenette and helps himself to a cup of tea. Mikasa feels her rage like the swarming of a forest fire that won't be contained.

"Did you even read it all?" Her fist closes together with intent to see blood seeping out from his teeth.

"I did." Like he's daring her to say more, he pointedly glances behind.

Mikasa has to force her jaw to unclasp. She stares at his back while he resumes flipping through her collection of tea leaves.

"Then what's wrong with it?"

"What's not wrong with it, you mean," he answers easily, setting black tea to steep.

Mikasa is almost certain her vision is turning red. Somewhere in the depths of her mind is Armin reminding her to breathe, to count backwards from ten, and she tries to follow this advice.

Eventually, she's able to speak. "Enlighten me."

Levi takes his teacup to the armchair in the corner of her room and takes a seat. "Think of it this way, Ackerman. How do you place Eren in these plans?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, did you place Eren in planned exposure to enemy combatants or with potential safety risks?"

She's reluctant to answer, but unwilling to hesitate, either. "No."

"No, what?"

He's mocking her; he already knows the answer, he's already said he read the entirety of the plans.

Mikasa exhales sharply. "No, I didn't place him near enemy combatants, nor with any known safety risks."

Levi seems content enough to stretch out his legs and sip his tea without offering additional comment. Despite her confidence that his laissez-faire attitude is meant to provoke her anger, she's mesmerized by the sight of how ordinary he looks draped across furniture in her bedroom. Like a child sneaking their first sips of stolen wine, she drinks in this sight of him.

Mikasa eventually makes a slow trek over to join him. She almost slumps down onto the edge of her bed across from him, legs swinging out before her and the papers from her draft plans discarded beside her.

"What's the problem then?" she grumbles, but it lacks her earlier heat. "Isn't it my job to devise tactical plans that prioritize the safety of the titan shifters?"

"Is it your job, or is it your personal agenda?"

"Don't."

It won't occur to her until later that the dynamics between them must have shifted right beneath her nose if she felt this comfortable to chastise him. Even more so, that he actually listened. 

Mikasa sighs, not wanting to rehash an old argument she knows she can never truly win. "You know I've proven capable of understanding the difference."

"You have to keep proving it."

She warily accepts this without further complaint.

"The problem isn't with Eren or Arlert," Levi tells her, looking up from his black tea.

She bristles. "Then what?"

Levi uses his teacup to point toward the crumpled papers. "How did you place Mikasa Ackerman in those plans?"

Mikasa stares at him for a moment. The question seems odd, almost sounds like it's being spoken in a foreign language. Then she puts his meaning together with his clarification from earlier. She looks down, pulls at the loose threads of stitching in her silk pajama shorts.

"Placed near significant exposure to enemy combatants and with extreme safety risks."

Mikasa refuses to sound like she regrets it, but Levi's already shaking his head.

"I'm _more_ than capable of surviving those risks," she argues, trying to remember he's more apt to listen to her if she remains calm.

"Surviving," Levi repeats, unimpressed. "Hopefully with all limbs attached?"

She purses her lips. "Surviving is the least any of us can ask for."

"You're right," he says, staring into his tea again, seeing something, or the _someones_ she can't.

She wonders how many soldiers, squad members, and friends he's known over the years who have not survived. Frowning, Mikasa pulls at another loose thread on her shorts.

"Like you said, brat," Levi says, his preferred insult for her spoken possessively if not affectionately. "It is your job to keep them safe – and it's my job to keep you safe. Your plan was shit the second you decided to place yourself as a commodity instead of a priority."

Mikasa's nervous fingers pause on a thread. The words sit on the tip of her tongue for half a second, which isn't enough time for her to stop them.

"Is it your job, or is it your personal agenda?"

Even though she's the one who spoke them, she's startled by the sound of the words. She abruptly looks up, horrified at the words hanging in the air between them, scrambling for a way to pull them back.

Levi just stares at her. It might be only a moment, but it stretches on for eternity; unblinking, he studies her face. There's an impossible paradox of patience and urgency in his scrutiny. She watches him map out the details of her - the shape of her brows, shimmer of lilac in the gray of her eyes, structure of cheekbones the same as her mother's, delicate curve of her semi-parted lips.

Despite his persistent intensity, Mikasa actually starts to relax. There is a definitive sort of pressure from his stern gaze, but it's warm, almost comforting.

She wonders if Levi is looking at her like this now because he's only used to seeing the faces of those he cares about through the memories he projects into teacups.

When he finally speaks, it's not unkind. "We both know I can't answer that."

Mikasa feels her entire mind, body and soul come to full attention, but he pulls himself up from the armchair in one fluid movement. All strength and grace of a soldier, he crosses the brief threshold into her kitchenette.

Like she's navigating the aftermath of an explosive, she scrambles in her mind for any sort of plausible response. She can't think of anything in the wreckage.

As if there's nothing out of ordinary about the situation, Levi drains his tea, washes the cup, dries it, and places it back into the cabinet. He seems to be making for a wordless exit.

She can't bear to watch him leave.

"Levi."

Not Captain Levi. Levi. It's the first time she's ever called him only by his first name. Alarmed again at her tongue's audacity, she waits for his scathing rebuke or pointed glare.

Instead, he pauses with one hand on the door frame and turns halfway back to look at her.

She isn't sure why she called out to him. There are many lines of insubordination Mikasa has crossed and just as many finer points of protocol Levi has forfeited in the time span of their turbulent relationship. Yet even just thinking about what she could say next puts all prior moments of noncompliance to shame.

Maybe saying only his name is enough.

Mikasa looks at him, both hands folded into her lap and the start of a satisfied smile on her lips. He didn't answer her question, but somehow, it certainly feels like he did.

" _Tch._ " It's almost inaudible, but she notes how it is uncharacteristically devoid of annoyance. Then, he's walking out the door with his final command. "I want those plans updated and on my desk by ten o'clock. And make sure this time they're actually worth my time to read, Ackerman."

Her smile widens fully as the door drifts to a close.

~.~

**VII. "Do not– …"**

She stopped hearing the sound of the surrounding tides hours ago; soon after, couldn't hear the stringing together of syllables that make up the silent words in her mind either. _Walls, it's freezing_ might have been the last of her coherent thoughts, but now it's only the reality of it.

Shaking violently, swallowing more of the sea and spitting it out again. If her limbs are still treading water, she doesn't know it. Coldness like none other has seeped through her clothes, skin, and settles in even deeper than muscle or bone. If she has a soul, it's frozen, too.

There's sapphire shades in the depths of the ocean that sometimes appear nighttime black; it's never-ending, the course of waves cresting over her with their adamant attempts to drag her under. Can't see any steel ship, nor any nearby white sands; it's only the endless sea. This far into the ocean, it's not beautiful or promising, and what little spirit she has left wants to assault Armin with this newfound knowledge. This far into the ocean, it's the surreal simplicity of a certain death.

No, _Walls, it's freezing_ isn't the last thing she remembers thinking.

Mikasa's frozen limbs must decide it's either not possible or not worth the struggle; she helplessly sinks beneath the next surging of the sea. Past the brink of exhaustion, there's not conscious thought or a survival instinct that can save her. Without the reflection of dawn's muted light, the consuming blackness beneath the sea is proven to her. Endless seas become her end.

It must be whatever insanity or vitality courses through an Ackerman's blood; her head bobs upward to the surface again, choking on sea, coughing on air, neither enabling her to breathe.

 _Fuck, drowning takes a long time._ That is the last thing she remembers thinking.

_._

_._

Broken sounds – chattering teeth, hoarse whispers – and thrashing movement– violent tremors, aching limbs. Ice has been sewn through to prevent the fluttering of her eyelids. The burgeoning of half-consciousness is distant from the sensation of a human host; chilled so thoroughly she no longer feels cold. Cold is asinine, frozen is an afterthought; nothingness is so much more, and so much less, than coldness.

Everything else is distant, too; the crashing of tidal waves onto a surface that's not their own, the deep-toned rhythms of someone shouting. These colors are worse than black; they are twilight hues in shades she has never seen before.

Far, far away, someone is infuriated she wants to keep sleeping.

.

.

Sludge in her throat. It tastes like acid – salt, vomit and metal. Ricocheting of sharp glass and shrapnel tearing through her brain. An absolute ache, the cold searing through her limbs so violently her blood must be on fire. Slicing into her tongue with chattering canines, it's not enough to cause attention. Melting ice crystals turn into tears on her lids, she flutters them open. There are familiar shades of whatever else opposes the darkness, but she cannot name these colors either.

" _Mikasa_. Fuck, come on, come on."

Furious she was sleeping, furious she's awake.

"Mikasa _, look at me!_ "

.

.

Soaked from salt water and weighted as though she's already dead, Levi drags Mikasa's immobile body out of the small boat. He presses her back to his chest and ropes his arms beneath her underarms, wasting no time and thrashing his way through the low tides. When they at last stumble onto the shorelines, he realizes fear provided him only half a plan. The Sun has slipped out from Her hiding place beneath the sea, but She's only weak light with no promise of warmth.

Levi keeps moving. He watches in morbid fascination at the sight of his footprints in the sand disappearing beneath the lines made by her heels as he pulls her further up the coast. Only when he's confident the waves aren't near and the sand won't be wet does he drop down to his knees, swift to move from behind and over to her side. He cradles the base of her head until it touches the ground.

She's _cold_ and solid in a way that makes him regret ever comparing her to the hardness of marble. Sheer panic tears through him again as he considers how _fucking long_ she spent lost in the sea. Her skin is taut and frozen but he wraps his entire hand around her neck to verify there's still a pulse– barely there, a whisper of its ordinary strength and skipping several beats.

Levi is certain he's never hollered so much in his life and the Universe mocks him for it: she can't hear a damn word. What little foresight he had prompted him to tear off his cloak before diving into the water and he remembers now that it's still in the small boat.

After another string of frustrated expletives, Levi goes back to retrieve the cloak. Certain there's only one other time he's moved this fast – the surprise attack on the Beast Titan – he grabs the cloak, keeps it held high to avoid touching the water, and slides back into the sand at her side.

Leftover ice crystals from a night spent in the frigid ocean cling to her clothes and Levi makes the snap decision to tear them off. There's nothing sensual or intimate about it; for sake of respect and privacy, he leaves on her thin undergarments in the assumption they'll dry quicker without the soaking wet military-grade clothing resting above them. He clumsily wraps the cloak around her ice-cold frame, lifting her the best he can despite her dead-weight.

Once again Levi looks for the provision of the Sun but She's still eye-level, unable to offer enough heat to break the winter's morning chill in the air, let alone warm the dying woman in his arms.

It's only the years of a dismal childhood and extensive military training that enable him to think clearly over the exhaustion and ongoing flood of panic. Other sources of warmth – a fire, body heat. He scans the nearby surroundings of bland white sands, and then finds at least one patch of shrubbery with a handful of slim trees further up the coast.

Deciding it would take too much time to lift her properly, Levi moves behind her and collects her from beneath her underarms again. He drags her unconscious frame up the rest of the coastline and finds the widest tree at the shrubbery's starting line. He leans into the tree's trunk and unceremoniously drops, his back sliding along the rough bark but Mikasa kept carefully tucked to his chest and between his legs.

As soon as he has them both seated, he whips his head around to search for dry wood and begins to pull himself out from beneath Mikasa's limp frame.

It's the pathetic attempt of an icy, trembling hand forming half a grip around his wrist that stops him. Rattled from the chaos of adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, he's almost too shocked to understand. Steel-gray eyes look first to Mikasa's shaking hand then ping toward her face; half-lidded and drowsy, but there's _life_ in the lavender-dusted eyes looking up at him.

He mutters another expletive as though swear words are now the only language he knows. Then, keenly aware she is by no means safe yet, he remembers what he was about to do.

"I need to make a fire. You're about to freeze to death," Levi explains, beginning to stand again.

Not for the first time in the last half hour does it occur to him that she couldn't have drowned any of the other nine months of the year when the weather remained temperate? He doesn't have Gods to blame, so he moves on from the complaint.

" _No_." It rips out of Mikasa's hoarse throat as though it is fear incarnate.

Jolted at the sound of her primal cry, Levi looks down with an entirely new sense of panic. Despite the tremors involuntarily consuming every inch of her body, she glares at him with an impossible ferocity to demand that he stay seated.

Nearing death or not, she must be able to see Levi's continued commitment to his original plan. Mikasa tries to tighten the hold over his wrist but he only feels it like the fluttering of butterfly wings passing over his skin.

"P-please," she whispers, anguished.

Her sheer vulnerability finally makes Levi halt his movement. As if he's been paralyzed too, he rests against the tree trunk and loses a part of himself in Mikasa's agony so apparent in desperate eyes.

It occurs to Levi for the first time it is not only winter's chill that she's dealing with, but the aftermath of an entire night spent nearly drowning alone, with the certainty she would die alone, as well. 

"Alright." He doesn't mean to say it, but now that he has conceded, the relief overcomes her.

She's just spent whatever insignificant amount of superhuman strength she has left. Her lids shudder to a helpless close and her frigid fingers fall from his wrist as sleep takes her over again.

"Fuck," Levi mutters.

If not a fire, then body heat, his tactical mind reminds him. Levi swallows the next set of expletives as he figures out how to lift her frame closer to him. He pulls her back up to his chest and her unconscious head bobbles backward into the planes of his chest. He's still soaked too, but the few moments spent fishing her out of the ocean don't compare to the level of cold she inherited from an entire night spent in it. He presses his legs into hers and hopes the heat beneath wet clothes is enough.

Hearing Hange in his mind as they would describe the human anatomy, Levi knows it's most important to warm her core and the blood leaving from her heart. He wraps Mikasa's arms around her own chest and then encases his arms around, too.

"Damn it, Ackerman," he whispers angrily, but he tucks his chin into her neck.

It has the dual purpose of warming her and enabling him to feel her pulse; its faint but continued rhythm is the only reason he doesn't renege on his unspoken promise not to leave her. Still, he's aware of the stark difference between the heat of a fire and his sopping wet frame.

Even unconsciously she's riveted by involuntary tremors and it is one of the few times in his tumultuous life that he feels useless. He grinds his teeth and does whatever else he can think to do that might help; pass deliberate breaths of hot air onto her jugular vein, knead his knees into her frigid thighs, and rub the palm of his hands up and down her crossed arms held by him.

It's only the risen height of the Sun that tells him it's almost mid-morning when she wakes again. Despite weak coughs sputtering out of her, she presses her back further into Levi – not because he's warm, but because he's an anchor.

Too close behind her to see her face, he feels more than he sees her need to explain.

"T-took out t-he boat," she says between the remaining shivers.

Levi looks over to the shoreline where the one and only small boat they've built (half-inspired by the Marley ships, half-devised by Armin's intellect) is drifting above the low tides on the coast.

"No," she mumbles, noting the direction of his gaze by the lift of his chin off her neck. "T-took out _their_ boat."

His eyes widen as he changes his line of sight to the wreckage from the night prior. It's still ablaze, though the tendrils of smoke have gone from thick billows of black to wisps of silver— it's the half-sunk warship from Marley's surprise assault last night. Eren and Arlert were both knocked unconscious and returned to their human forms at the end of the fight. Everyone, including Levi, assumed it had been one of them who damaged the warship amidst all the chaos. Then, after realizing Mikasa was missing, he simply forgot about it.

That was a warship hosting hundreds of Marley soldiers and the retreating human form of the Jaw Titan— and she'd single-handedly destroyed it.

It should have been the familiar string of curses that slipped out of his profane mouth. Instead he sits completely still for several moments, waiting for his heart to stop thundering furiously in his chest.

It doesn't.

"Do not– …"

Levi stops the words as soon as he starts them, surprised at the sound of fear in them— it's fractured and foreign.

He continues to massage into her upper arms and takes another breath. "Do not go off on insane, _suicidal_ missions without my explicit instructions or consent."

Her laugh is quiet, but it's the sound of ice melting from her lungs. "You'll g-give me per-permission for those?"

"No," he says, severe and blunt.

But what he spoke aloud differs from what he is thinking.

_Do not go without me. Do not go where I won't be able to find you. Do not go to the places I can't follow._

It's not conscious thought to keep her warm but the selfish need to keep her closer that causes him to tighten his hold around her.

Maybe she knows this, or maybe it's the remnants of hypothermia and exhaustion, but Mikasa settles further into him and tilts her head back to rest beneath his collarbone. It drops his chin further into the hollows of her neck and could press their cheeks together if he'd let himself lean forward.

"We both know you're too valuable for that," Levi eventually says, somber. It's an honest conclusion to what he spoke aloud and kept only in his thoughts.

Mikasa hums through her shivers, but it turns into a thoughtful sigh. "I'm tired of the things we both know."

It's a different conversation from a different day she's referring to, but the meaning behind her words is not lost on him. What ordinary defenses Levi has fortified to prevent the continuation of this conversation, or engaging in anything that might bring it about, are demolished by her near death experience— she's still cold and shivering in his arms.

Levi dips forward and lets their cheeks touch. Her skin is still considerably colder than his, but no longer reminiscent of a corpse. Despite having his arms folded over her and his legs pressed firmly into the remainder of her frame, this additional contact makes him feel worse, not better.

In a striking clarity he knows he'll always see so vividly, he remembers when he first spotted Mikasa's immobile body floating in the sea. He could have been too late. She could be dead.

"I know," Levi mutters, hot breath warming her.

He presses his lips firmly to her cheek for what is either the start of an incomplete kiss, or one that lasts for so long she slips out of consciousness again before he finishes it. 

~.~

**VIII. "I remember what you meant."**

Five days of mandatory bed-rest has Mikasa prepared to burst at the seams. Despite sleeping straight through the half of it and several visits from comrades and friends, she feels the longing to run, an ache for combat, and the otherwise lurking emptiness that a busy routine always filled for her. It's quarter to eleven at night and the surrounding rooms are quiet, but Mikasa is awake and anxious. For the umpteenth time, she brews another cup of tea.

The knuckle-tapped knocks on her door are the same as ordinary, but this time, it surprises her. It's been five days since he pulled her out of the sea and she hasn't seen him once since then.

Mikasa hesitates as she looks down at the hem of her over-sized sweater; it only reaches to the top of her thighs. She considers where the nearest pair of pants are, but then remembers the condition she was found in and doesn't bother.

"Come in," she says, taking down another teacup in case he hasn't brought his own.

Levi lets himself in and she keeps her attention on the boiling water and collection of tea leaves. "Want any?"

"No, that's alright."

Mikasa hears his blithe tone and disinterest in tea and does the math for herself; he doesn't plan to stay. She pushes the teacup meant for him in the opposite direction and prepares lavender and chamomile for herself. Once it's set to steep, she reluctantly turns around to face him.

He's in a complete ensemble of formal attire: dress slacks, an austere navy blazer that adds bluish glints to his glass-gray eyes, a pristine white linen button-up shirt with his matching signature ascot. He's every bit the look of a commanding officer. Worse, he holds a thick white envelope that signifies whatever formal business must be the only reason he's finally come to visit her. It makes Mikasa want to hurl her tea at him.

It's this anger that gives her courage to say what she ordinarily would be wise enough not to speak.

"You saved my life," she says, like it's an accusation.

Levi lifts a brow. "Only made necessary thanks to your impulsive behaviors."

Mikasa pushes off the kitchenette's counter and glares at him. "You spent all night searching for me until you found me in the _middle of an ocean._ "

He doesn't bristle when she approaches him. There's an almost lazy drawl when he responds, the curious brow descending to his ordinary features. "Again, we can fault your poorly planned choices for that."

Now she's infuriated. "You kissed me."

She looks to him with an anger that is barely able to conceal her despair. Despite her tossed-up hair and sleepwear, Levi sees her as no less lethal than when she's in uniform facing titans on a battlefield.

Mikasa can't identify what is masked behind his shuddered gaze, but she assumes he's forcing himself not to scowl. Her next round of verbal onslaughts are interrupted by his casual remark.

"You going to ask me why I'm here, brat?"

Like the crack of a whip has sounded, Mikasa takes one sudden step backward. She's too busy frowning at the envelope of whatever formality of business he's brought with him to see his subtle shift of confusion.

Feeling abruptly put into place by a superior officer, Mikasa bites onto her tongue and clenches her fist. She's in the process of tossing it into her chest and barking out the required _Captain Levi_ when he snags her wrist and stops her. His remark wasn't meant to enforce protocol or prompt her to salute him.

Mikasa blinks in surprise, but the whirlwind of anger and hurt still storms within her. She jerks her chin toward the envelope in his hand.

"You're here to give me that," she answers, frustrated.

She should force her wrist out from his grip, but she knows she can't bear to remove it: this is the closest to a touch she's likely to feel from him outside the context of sparring.

Levi lowers her saluting hand but doesn't let go of her wrist. "Yes, Ackerman."

She stares at the envelope. "What is it?"

 _"Tch._ " But it's more mirth than scorn. "This is the official notice of your designated promotion in rank."

Shock effectively quells the remainder of her anger. "W-what?"

Levi seems reluctant to release her wrist, but then he lifts the envelope up to her. Mikasa pauses for a moment, staring at him with lips still parted and eyes widened in surprise; he offers nothing except a half-formed smirk.

She finally takes hold of the envelope – and abruptly nervous, takes it to sit at the edge of her bed. Her focus is so intent on breaking the Scout's formal wax seal and opening the thick-papered letter she doesn't notice Levi hasn't taken his usual seat in the armchair, but has opted to sit beside her on the bed.

_Ackerman, Mikasa, current Sgt.,_

_Effective on Monday, February 05th, your service on the Scouts formally considers your rank as Squad Supervisor. Your expectations as an officer are detailed as the following:_

But Mikasa can't read further as the words start to blur together. "An officer?"

"You don't think your latest selfless stunt deserved recognition?" Levi's taunt is so gentle it almost sounds like a compliment.

She grips the letter tight between both hands. "D-does this mean I report directly to you?"

In absence of a Lieutenant to report to, this would make Captain Levi next in the Chain of Command.

"Not off to a great start if you can't even read basic instructions." His tone is as blithe as usual, but there's something else, something keen.

Mikasa follows the tracking of his index finger onto the start of the last paragraph.

_Due to extenuating circumstances, Officer M. Ackerman, Squad Supervisor, will report directly to Regiment Commander Zoe Hange._

She frowns in genuine confusion. "What extenuating circumstances?"

When Levi doesn't offer clarification, she looks over to him. The sight of his unabashed amusement almost startles her. At first, she feels a flare of defensiveness spur through her, stands up abruptly to issue a complaint, but then— then she remembers that Levi wouldn't let her salute him.

Like a flash of lightning, the realization strikes her. The letter slips through her fingers and drifts to the floor. It lands on her bare feet, but she's already forgotten about it. She's looking at Levi, seated patiently on the edge of her bed as the understanding unfolds over her features.

Per military code, officers can enter into a relationship only when one of them doesn't report to the other in the Chain of Command. If there's conflict of interest to the Chain of Command, extenuating circumstances can be listed by the supervising officer to remove themselves as their potential partner's direct supervisor.

Now, Mikasa repeats it, no longer confused. "Extenuating circumstances."

"Yes," he says, watching her hope-filled orbs widen at the confirmation. "Apparently my interest in you qualifies."

Mikasa feels a burden she hadn't known was so painful or heavy until it lifts entirely from her. Her shoulders relax from the abrupt removal and she swallows the start of an entirely new, sweeter set of nerves.

"Oh," she whispers, taking a slow step forward, then another. "Your interest in me."

"Assuming the interest is mutual," he says dryly, but one brow is playfully lifted.

Mikasa takes the last step toward him. She's not sure if she's the first to position herself between his legs or if he's the first to take hold of her hips and place her there, but she feels the reality of the moment fully sinking into her and takes a sharp breath. It's a contradiction like no other; blessed relief but torturous anticipation. She drapes her arms carefully onto his neck, savoring the sensations he sends with his thumbs pressing in beneath her hip bones.

"I think we both know it's mutual," she says softly, stitching her fingers together behind the nape of his neck.

Hands that have taught her, fought her and saved her tighten their hold; Levi presses his palms and outstretched fingers into the span of her lower back. 

"We won't work together as often. We'll mostly be on separate assignments," he tells her, and though it's not a question, she can tell he's wondering if that's a problem to her.

Mikasa thinks about this. "You're saying we'll see each other less?"

He nods, perhaps waiting to see if she'll tell him it was a mistake to remove her from his Chain of Command.

Mikasa's often been more impulsive than thoughtful, more physical than verbal. She untangles her hold from behind his neck and starts to untie his ascot instead. Once it's removed, she drops it onto the bed and wraps her fingers around the first button of his dress shirt. It flicks open with ease. She stops there, though. 

"I think we'll see more of each other," she says resolutely, making sure he knows she's serious.

Because it's not really about what's beneath their clothing, but the opportunity to spend genuine time together without any rules of restraint.

Levi lifts both brows, but already he's massaging into the perpetually sore muscles of her back, somehow finding space between them to bring her in closer. She holds a hazy memory of them being this close the morning she almost drowned, but now she's fully conscious.

Mikasa focuses on every flutter of his dark lashes, the hardly visible start of a five-o-clock shadow stubble, fading scars, the shape of his cupid's bow above his lips.

Levi dips his forehead down to slide his nose alongside hers and she doesn't realize it, but she's holding her breath. Anticipation trembles through her. 

But then another thought comes unbidden. 

"Wait," she murmurs. She's unwilling to separate too far and hovers near his cheek. "Did you have to resuscitate me?"

Levi picks up on her underlying question. 

"You're asking me if I've already touched your lips." As he says it, his own lips brush over the tip of her nose, nearing the subject of their conversation.

"Y-yes," she answers, a soft blush toning her cheeks. "I don't remember…"

"No, Mikasa," he answers gently, the terror from the moment too recent, the fear still branded in his mind. "Chest compressions when I first dragged you into the boat, that's all."

She tilts her head. "Say that again."

A flash of confusion. "Chest comp-"

"My name," she clarifies, a soft-spoken interruption.

Levi draws back some, looking at her intently until the understanding of its significance comes to him. He smirks subtly, raising the hold on her neck to cradle the base of her skull, lithe fingers tangling through her hair.

Before he speaks, his lips find the delicate space at the corner of her mouth. "Mikasa."

She clutches onto him harder, savoring the sweetness of the newfound simplicity between them, delighted in the uncertainty of whatever will come next.

"Le-" she starts to say his name, but the remaining syllables are stolen when Levi claims her lips.

Levi kisses her as though never in his wildest dreams did he believe he would have the chance to, but willed it into existence all the same. Mikasa doesn't hesitate to match his fervor; like he was the one drowning, and she's his first breath of oxygen.

The last few days, months and years have propelled them into an immediate connection, now brought to life in reverent touches and nurturing of swollen lips.

Levi's hand at her neck slides around to cradle her face while he becomes less fervent but more deliberate, drawing out every touch that drags over her lips. She follows his lead, slowing down enough to feel her nerves crackle from electricity when he sweeps his tongue along her bottom lip, deepening their kiss.

Mikasa climbs into his lap gradually, one knee brought up to the bed on the left side of him, and then her right knee beside him, too. His warmth envelopes her as they press further into each other, and she is stunned by the exquisite contrast in feeling powerful above but delicate on top of him.

Her additional weight on his lap doesn't snap him into a hurried pace; instead it's the opposite, when Levi lowers his hold to rest on her backside and he slows each of his kisses to a torturous rate. He pulls her bottom lip and sucks on it, soliciting an inaudible moan from Mikasa's tightening frame. It occurs to her belatedly that her interruption causes him to smile against her mouth.

"Mikasa," he says, the gravelly whisper making her preen.

She's reluctant to withdraw, but it gives her the chance to finish what she started earlier. "Levi."

He hears the unnecessary enthusiasm in her proclamation of his name and chuckles, the low vibrations pressing into her throat when he brings his lips to hover over her ear. He starts out on a line of open-mouthed kisses that she hopes will never end.

"Your tea," he says, as if there's an issue, but his tongue is circling into the hollows of her neck. "It's still steeping."

Levi nips next and she gasps at the jolt it sends right past her navel. His hands dip beneath her sweater and he stretches his calloused fingers over the bare skin above her waist.

 _Sina, Maria, and Rose_ , Mikasa thinks distractedly, lightly dragging her fingernails down his shoulder blades.

"It'll be bitter," he finishes, sucking onto her pulse point.

The last time he was near her throat's pulse it was almost too weakened to notice, but now it throbs with the full force of her life. He follows after his first bruising kiss with one that is impossibly tender.

Mikasa finds her hands tangled into his hair and she drops her head downward, desperate to provoke him the same way he's been doing to her. She kisses beneath his ear, then sucks onto his earlobe, pushing herself deeper into his lap.

"I'm not in the mood for tea," she tells him pointedly, pulling only her torso back.

Mikasa carefully unwinds her hands from behind him and gradually lifts her arms toward the ceiling, doting over the realization that this is the reason he declined her earlier offer for tea. She thinks Levi might make a soft _tch_ sound while retreating from her throat, but he takes her lead and finds the hem of her sweater so that together they can remove it.

When the material passes over Mikasa's head, she doesn't have the chance to drop it to the ground before Levi takes her firmly into his hold and pulls them both further into the bed. Before she can blink, she's tossed onto the comfort of pillows and sheets, and Levi is above her, staring at her so intently she's certain her insides have melted.

His earlier line of tongue-led kisses are resumed from the base of her throat to the center of her chest. He doesn't answer her until after he's paused his lips atop the lively rate of her fast-beating heart. "Me neither."

The next morning when Mikasa wakes, it's to the soft rays of a winter's sunrise, strong arms and radiant heat encasing her, and the sight of the letter she had dropped on the floor now settled beneath a paperweight on her nightstand. Levi must have put it there last night after he came back from the washroom, when she'd been too distracted with the aftermath of cascading pleasure.

Though she's sure that she remained still, Levi wakes too. He readjusts his hold over her, his free arm loosening and hand straying to massage into the top of her thigh. He silently rests his chin into her neck.

"Good morning," she whispers, afraid any noise louder might ruin any of the magical components that have transfigured this morning into her current reality.

He responds with a lingering kiss in the crook of her neck. Mikasa settles herself further into him, sighing happily but still, distracted at the sight of the letter. Somehow, Levi seems to notice what's garnered her attention.

"Nervous?" he asks, looking toward the letter, too.

Surprising even herself with the abrupt honesty, she answers. "Terrified."

Levi returns his arm to her waist and Mikasa lifts her elbow to make room for him. He wraps a reassuring hold around her abdomen and rests his splayed fingers over her bare skin. She settles her arm back onto his, finding his hand and interlocking their scarred fingers together.

"You're ready," he says, blunt and honest, the only way he knows how to be. "Not just because you sunk a warship and killed a titan shifter." 

She almost smiles, but hesitates instead; what she understands now that she didn't when she was younger is how there's far more than brute strength and zeal required to effectively command. As an officer and Squad Supervisor, there will be too many young lives relying on her. Leading and protecting them involves far different skills than sinking enemy ships. Isn't she lacking in that department? Commander Hange should know better than to reward her brash behaviors. This close, Levi can feel her tensing beneath him.

"Hand me the letter."

Mikasa isn't sure for what reason or why, but she reaches over and takes hold of it for him. Levi doesn't take it, though. He waits until she opens it for herself and then murmurs in her ear.

"Look at the date."

Another finer detail Mikasa missed when the reason for their extenuating circumstances distracted her.

It was written and signed a week ago - two days prior to the surprise assault from Marley and her 'selfless stunt deserving recognition.' 

"Oh," she murmurs, still nervous but flooded with sincere relief.

" _Tch_." Amused, he brushes his nose upward and offers a slow kiss onto her temple.

Now that her hands are occupied with the letter, Levi thoughtlessly draws circles and runes over the toned muscles of her abdomen. She rests in the sincerity of his support, comfort from his warm hold, and bliss provoked by his exploring touch. Eventually, Mikasa folds the letter properly, places it back onto the nightstand, and then turns herself around to face him.

Though she hasn't said anything, Levi knows her too well. She's looking up to him, determined and serious, and he returns it, unblinking while he waits for her.

"I won't," she says, spoken like a promise.

"Won't, what?" Levi asks, one brow lazily lifting.

"Go off on insane, suicidal missions without your explicit instructions or consent."

His surprise is evident. Not just that she recites his plea verbatim, but that the pinpricks of lavender in her thoughtful gray eyes and nervous manner she's tending to her bottom lip indicate that she's referring to more than missions and assignments. Especially since he's no longer above her in the Chain of Command.

"You remember what I said," Levi says more than asks, finding a loose strand of hair and sliding it off her cheek.

Mikasa places her palm flat onto his chest, feeling his steadied heartbeat and life-saving heat. "I remember what you meant."

Levi doesn't say the words aloud, but offers the same commitment in the thoroughness of his next kiss.

~.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your reads, kudos, and comments!! I'm kind of confused on etiquette, it feels rude not to reply to you lovely folks but it inflates the comment count? Sincerely, thanks to each of you, comments make my day. :) 
> 
> Ironically, "That was the point." took three attempts to write, but I think it's my favorite-- knowing and loving someone through action seems more beautiful to me than flowery words and sentiments. 
> 
> Hope everyone is safe and well. xo

**Author's Note:**

> Your thoughts, comments, and critiques are always welcome and appreciated. xo


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